


Side Blue

by yokaiy



Series: Speak to Me [1]
Category: Hyper Light Drifter
Genre: Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Scab-picking, Slow Burn, Smothered Slow Burn, Spoilers, Vomiting, general grossness, mute character, seriously play the game first, will tag characters as they appear, your mileage may vary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2016-12-01
Packaged: 2018-08-11 05:31:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7878406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yokaiy/pseuds/yokaiy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’d never had to explain himself when he’d been alone. It’s frustrating to want to now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He sees flashes, somewhat.

Flickering in and out, blending and popping, crackling, crunching, disappearing. The black eyes of the girl in the plaza, the coy smile of his friend who lived down the street, the tangled hair of his mother. He sees green, soft and smooth but sharp and rigid. It explodes in front of his eyes and freezes, and he hurts,  _ god _ does he hurt, but also feels like he's floating. He sees a dog, a diamond. He sees red.

He remembers red.

Red as far as the eye can see, stretching beyond the horizon, stark against an ashen sky. It's warm, but greedy and all-consuming, enveloping him in heat that makes his skin itch. It turns black, becomes sharp, and tries to swallow him. And he runs.

He  _ runs _ , because he can't fathom keeping still. He can't stay in the red and the black and it's hot but cold and his lungs are burning. But the red is all around him, sticky and clinging like tar, and the black is following him. It convalesces, and consumes, and then everything is dark and quiet and oppressive.

It's death, and it devours him.

 

\--

 

He twitches, awakening with a jolt, inhaling sharply.

The world around him is cold and solid, but not oppressive or all-consuming. He can hear a soft crackling from nearby as well as the slight pitter-patter of rainfall. Slowly, he forces his eyes open, blinking fiercely to make them focus, since they're the only part of him that he seems able to move.

First observation: he's alive. He can breathe, albeit shakily, and that means he must still be alive.

The wheres and whys of the situation escape him, but here he is, laying face down on the stone under the shadow of a giant, moss-covered obelisk. There's a fire flickering just outside of his range of vision, if his ears are to be believed. He can almost make out the light it's casting onto the ground somewhere above his head.

The sky flashes sometimes, accompanied by a distant cracking noise. It's somewhere far away still, but he can hear the heavens rumbling with the waves, which must be coming from an ocean somewhere behind him; he definitely can't see the source.

More notable than that is the constant beeping coming from somewhere around his head. At first, he couldn't discern it from the ringing in his ears and the throbbing in his skull, but as his senses return to him, he can tell it’s separate.

The source of the noise, his Companion bot, drifts into his vision briefly, and suddenly he finds himself overwhelmed with relief at its presence. Even if it's kind of grating right now with all its droning.

He sits up with a groan, pushing himself up with shaking arms. He doesn't trust himself to stand without help.

The obelisk, he notes while pulling himself to his feet, is familiar. Once he's back on his feet -- a task that takes him a few tries, and he's still feeling wobbly even when he's stable enough to let go of the stone structure -- he runs his hand across the surface. It's rigid, standing much more sturdy than he is, but also smooth and worn, and he feels a vague sense of familiarity wash over him. Like he's seen it before, but can't place where or when.

And then he takes a few steps back to examine it, and it looks so absolutely foreign that it makes him shudder. Suddenly, the hollow sockets carved into the face look like they're watching him, and the chiseled shapes look too much like teeth and claws, and the fire behind him no longer feels warm or inviting. It feels like ice, snapping at his heels, and he knows he has to leave. Has to get away from whatever this is,  _ wherever _ this is.

He stumbles away from it, past the fire, past the cliffside with water lapping up at the bottom, past the crashing waves and rolling thunder, until his legs shudder under him. His limbs feel prickly and his eyes burn. His lungs feel squeezed, and he lets out a cough, followed by a wheeze and a gag and several more coughs, as he struggles forward. His legs give way and he crumples to the ground, eyes screwed shut with tears flowing down his cheeks, his hands clawing at his throat and cape as he struggles for breath, bright magenta dribbling from his mouth as the coughing persists. His ears are ringing and there's black around him, he can  _ feel _ the black all around him, and then it's gone.

He lays on the ground, wheezing and unmoving, for what feels like ages as he tries to catch his breath.

Finally, the attack subsides completely, and he's still panting but the worst has passed. For now, anyway. He drags himself back to his feet, limbs twitching both from pain and his desire to  _ get moving, dammit _ . He trudges forward with everything he's got in him, slowly working his way up to a walk and then, when he's sufficiently forward-bound, breaks into what might pass as a sprint.

He'd hated staying still even  _ before _ the illness.

He's too afraid to stop.

 

\--

 

The cliffs break away into structures of stone and metal, decaying walkways illuminated with flickering lights ingrained in the floor panels. The structure has become largely worn away over time, he supposes, though plant-life seems to be thriving in the barren halls underfoot.

While the area does seem to be free of all other  _ people _ , he quickly finds that he is not the only  _ thing _ there.

The creature seems harmless, at first, meandering the halls with the attention span of a child, making quiet cooing noises and following light motes as they appear and disappear. It's large, larger than he is by about a head without even standing up straight, and top-heavy, with oversized and well-toned arms that end in sharp claws on its hands -- they seem more like hands than paws, even if the creature is bent over, nearly on all fours like an animal.

He planned to ignore it, at first. The thing seemed content to do... whatever it was doing, until he got too close. One of its pointed ears flicks up as the sound of his footsteps reverberate around the room, and it turns its head sharply, catching sight of him with its lifeless, hollowed white eyes. Then, it's bounding towards him with the force of a typhoon, galloping forward on all fours, grunting and howling and frothing at the mouth.

He takes a half step back as it lunges at him, turning on his heel to dash around it. He misjudges his drift a little, but manages to get out of the way, and bounds towards the creature with his sword drawn, swinging at its exposed backside.

The thing roars, attacking with new-found fury in spite of the wound on its back. He dashes backwards again, but a little too late, as the creature rakes its claws across his arm.

He hisses in pain, drifting far out of range before pulling out his gun, not wanting to risk such a close encounter again. The thing is rushing at him without hesitation before he can even aim, but it doesn't manage to close the distance before he's firing at it. Dead or dying, it's still moving toward him, skidding his direction out of sheer forward momentum.

He shoots it until it stops moving. He shoots it until he's completely out of ammo, even after it stops.

He pants, out of breath and out of practice, as he holsters the gun, staring at the monster's corpse as it begins to leak red. As the adrenaline ebbs away, he can hear his Companion blaring, more urgent now that he’s bleeding. He hadn’t felt it when it happened, but the wound is hurting now.

There's a bunch of machinery nearby, though, glowing a pale green. He rushes over to it, prying open a box-like piece of apparatus he hopes is a first-aid kit, not bothering to wonder why it was shoved into a corner of wherever this was.

Most of its contents are destroyed already, but he finds one working autoinjector and jams it into his arm without hesitation.

It stings like hell for a moment, before the feeling becomes cool and spreads through his body. He can feel the pain in his arm numbing, as the medicine works to knit his wounds back together. It won't fix it, not completely anyway, but it'll do until he can get proper medical attention.  _ If _ he can get proper medical attention.

He moves his arm experimentally, clenching and unclenching his hand. His Companion chirps with satisfaction as he continues on his way, once again starting with a brisk walk before breaking into a jog.

The sooner he gets out of here the better.

 

\--

 

He's feeling woozy by the time he emerges from the underground, and has slowed down to a quick-paced walk instead of a run.

He can see a town some ways off in the distance, which he decides is his destination. He's sick of seeing those weird goblin-like creatures. The sight of something sentient and not trying to kill him could only do good at this point.

That the edges of his vision are becoming black and fuzzy is only making the idea seem more appealing.

The path forward is long and winding, but he hardly notices. So long as he doesn't stop, it doesn't matter how far away civilization is or how much his path twists and turns; he'll get there eventually, and that's what matters.

He just has to keep going.

 

\--

 

Left.

Right.

Left.

Right.

His walk has slowed down to a trudge, but even at such a slow pace, his lungs feel like they're on fire. And while he's never been particularly good at the whole breathing thing, his chest seems to refuse air even more than usual. His breath is more like a wheezy rasp at this point, when he can manage to inhale at all.

Everything around him is flickering as he stumbles on. The black in his vision still persists, and he could swear it’s raining tar. He could also swear it’s raining tar  _ up _ instead of down.

His cough returns, almost as bad as before. He’s somehow managing to stay standing this time, for what that’s worth. His Companion is beeping again, from... somewhere. It sounds like it’s coming from all around him.

He trips on nothing, stumbles, and falls to his knees, holding himself up with one arm as he proceeds to almost hack up a lung. After several moments, it passes.

There's blood oozing from his mouth, seeping through the fabric wrapped around his face, and dripping onto the grass below. He stares at it, and it turns black.

Taking a deep breath, he stands--

\--and suddenly everything is black.

The blood drops at his feet pool together, expand, and rise from the ground, becoming black and sharp. In moments, they've become a figure, inky black and angular. The figure stands nearly six times his height, towering over him. Instead of a face, it has a bright, purple glyph that looks like an eye.

He knows this. He's seen this before, many times.

He tries to turn and run, but his body refuses as he starts coughing again. His limbs quiver, his chest heaves, and his legs nearly give out as he tries to get away, get anywhere that isn't in the presence of this titan.

He falls.

The phantom leaps towards him, crushing him. He can feel his frail spine snap, feel his body break to pieces, feel his life leave him.

He dies.

He sees a dog, a diamond.

And then black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, huge shout-outs to Zolarium for helping me write this monstrosity, and for being in hell with me 24/7. I seriously could not have gotten this far on this without them, and they're super good at like. Fixing my grammar screw-ups and helping me make sure my stuff flows and is coherent.
> 
> Some things to keep in mind while reading this; Drifter is a pretty bad narrator. Also he's gross. Please take everything he narrates with a grain of salt. He will have plenty of salt for you to use. That said, I put a lot of effort in having things come across a certain way. I'm not gonna say what they are, but read carefully! : D
> 
> Also, present-tense is hard to write in, but it was a necessity for Drifter.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The friend appears.

He's floating, maybe.

It's a little bumpy, as far as floating goes, but it's warm and soft, and maybe a little fluffy.

Whatever it is, he likes it. It feels like a hug.

He feels like he can breathe for the first time in years.

 

\--

 

He's floating again, but this time it's not warm or soft.

His body aches, but it's a dull ache, and he forces his eyes as open as they'll go.

It's dark, mostly, but not black. There's red and blue, pink and teal, and he's not alone. His eyelids flutter as he tries to roll over, but succeeds only in twitching uselessly, before everything drifts away again.

 

\--

 

He's not floating anymore.

Quite suddenly awake, he tries to sit up with a jolt, but only makes it to a slight angle before falling back down onto... what is he on?

His eyes are still adjusting, but he appears to be inside a building. He's on something soft, and covered by something warm -- a blanket. And he's on a bed. In a house?

He groans, rolling over slightly to look at his surroundings. Desks, shelves, drawers... There are heaps of scrap metal and junk shoved against walls and slid onto shelves. His eyes are drawn to some dismantled Companions lying on a desk a ways off, and he has a slight moment of panic until a light beeping alerts him to the presence of his own Companion, hovering a few inches from his head. He reaches out to touch it lightly.

"Are you awake?"

He doesn't have the energy to jump, startled as he might have been. He lets his arm fall back to his side, turning his head towards the voice.

The owner of the voice is large, with a helmet over his head and a cape thrown over his shoulders, obscuring much of his lightly armored attire. He has a reasonably sized backpack slung over one arm, with what looks like a sword hilt and an old-fashioned rifle poking out of the flaps. Probably intentional, he reasons. The man looks prepared to leave on a trip.

He walks over to the bedside, dropping his pack and pulling up a box for a makeshift seat.

"What is your name?"

It's--

Strange, he can't think of it. It hadn't even crossed his mind before now. He frowns slightly, mostly out of confusion. He isn't particularly bothered by it, though; it wouldn't have mattered anyway. His voice had stopped working ages ago.

He taps his throat wearily, hoping to get the point across. His host seems to get the idea, nodding thoughtfully.

"Can you spell it?" He questions.

He can't. After a few moments without responding, his host seems to gather that as well.

His host hums thoughtfully, putting a gloved hand to his chin and shutting his eyes. "Well, that will not do, stranger." He opens his blue eyes again. With his face in shadow, it’s surprising how bright they are.

"You are a drifter, right? I will just call you Drifter."

Something about that sounds... nice. Drifter blinks a few times, and then nods his approval. His host seems pleased.

"Well, then, Drifter," He pulls his helmet off, resting it in his lap and giving his guest a warm smile. His skin is dark, with scars snaking up the sides of his face. Probably from combat, Drifter reasons; the markings are jagged and linear, not scarred-over scabs and pock-marks like his own. His eyes stand out all the more against his skin tone. "You can call me Guardian."

Drifter gives him a withering stare. The Guardian clears his throat very deliberately and continues. "Everyone here calls me that," he explains. "Privacy is respected here, especially in recent years. With people coming and going as they are, it is not uncommon for someone to take up a title instead of a name." Drifter could respect that. It makes things easier, for sure.

"I had the doctor look at you." He wonders if that was a name or a title. "The Doctor said you should be good to go, as soon as you are able. I, ah..." His savior pauses as he picks absent-mindedly at the side of his face. "I took the time to change your clothes after bringing you back here. I hope you do not mind."

This time, Drifter sits all the way up with a jolt, and a little too fast at that. It hurts and he lets out a hiss of pain, and the Guardian is there with warm hands on his back, helping ease him back onto the pillow. He is mumbling apologies, and has the decency to look like he means it.

Drifter wheezes, his body aching angrily at the sudden movement. The Guardian looks concerned, eyeing him very carefully.

"I  _ am _ sorry, Drifter. If it makes you feel better, no one but me saw." He supposes it does make him feel a little better. "Anyway, I am glad to see that you are awake. I was going to head out, but... I will wait. I would rather see you off properly." The Guardian stands, picking up the box and carrying it back over to its place amongst the other crates and containers in the corner of the room. "For now..." He doubles back to his pack, picking it up with ease and dropping it over by the wall as well, before heading back to Drifter's side once more. "You should rest." He gently re-covers his guest with the blanket, patting it to make sure it’s properly soft.

"I will make you some food when you wake up."

Drifter lets out a quiet huff, nuzzling his way back into the warmth of the bed and beckoning his Companion to join him. The little bot chirps and takes its place on the pillow beside him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hover over things you don't know. : o 
> 
> If you're on mobile devices, check the end notes instead.

His legs itch.

He's antsy after being bedridden for so long, but the Guardian is there, making sure he keeps resting.

He tried to get up once already and didn't get very far. Then the Guardian was there with a helping hand and a bowl of soup, which had been pretty good actually, and he was back in bed and stewing in his own restlessness.

He _is_ getting better, at least.

True to his word, the Guardian hardly leaves his side. Drifter assumes he had to leave _some_ times, but whenever he’s awake, his host always seems to be nearby.

He supposes he enjoyed the company and the attention, but the experience has been so foreign to him. He wasn't quite sure how to react to the Guardian fussing over him so much. He’s still not sure what to make of it all.

In return for staying put and resting, the Guardian has been providing him with a lot of books. He was moving some things around the house and hadn't missed how Drifter's eyes lit up as he walked by the bed with a handful of novels. He placed a bunch on the night table next to the bed and then left Drifter to it. He continued replacing them a few times a day ever since.

Drifter can't read all of them, though. The Guardian's collection seems to be in a wide range of languages, some of which look sort of like the alphabet he’s used to, and some of which are completely unfamiliar. The ones he can almost read are even more vexing than the ones he can’t. It’s as if there’s some kind of trick to those, like if he tilts his head or changes the lines of the letters a little, maybe he’d get it.

“It is something like a different dialect.” The Guardian had explained offhandedly from his spot at the table in the other room, back when he’d first noticed Drifter’s irritation with the texts. He was tinkering with some machinery that was splayed out over the surface, but had looked up long enough to note his guest’s frustration. Drifter had hoped for some sort of elaboration, but none came. Still, a dialect? The letters seemed too different for that. Somehow, Drifter felt like the explanation was meant to be _simple_ rather than _correct_.

He’s not sure exactly how long ago that had been.

The book he’s reading right now is like that. Mildly irritating, albeit slightly intriguing. He flips through it absentmindedly, trying not to focus too much on what it might be saying. It seems to be something of a history book, complete with maps and diagrams and the like, but he can only glean so much from it by looking at the pictures.

After what must have been a great while, the Guardian walks over, a bowl of soup in one hand and fruit in the other. He sits on the edge of the bed and hands the bowl to Drifter. Normally he would leave to give Drifter some privacy, but this time he lingers, pulling out a long stretch of parchment and laying it over Drifter’s covered legs.

“I have been tracking modules,” he begins conversationally, smoothing out the paper before pointing out various symbols. Intrigued, Drifter places the dish on the night table, eyes glued to what he assumes are hand-written notes. He had suspected that the Guardian was a drifter as well, but it hadn’t come up.

“There are none in Central, but I have narrowed down a few locations in the east.” The Guardian waves over his Companion, and Drifter’s as well. The first whirrs softly as it projects a map in front of it -- basic, but mostly readable. On it, a handful of small areas are glowing red. Drifter’s Companion begins scanning the information immediately. “I have not pinpointed the exact location yet, though. I was planning to investigate the next time I went out. You are looking for them too, right?”

Drifter nods, eyes not leaving the map projection. His Companion bleeps, confirmation that it has copied the data successfully.

The Guardian hums, taking a bite of the fruit in his hand casually. “Tomorrow, how about we walk around town? If you seem okay, we can head east afterwards.”

 

\--

 

Drifter’s first thought after leaving the Guardian’s house is that the outside is… green. Very green. And blue and purple and yellow, as well.

Everything is colorful and lively, but also humble and well-lived in.

Flowers and plant life bloom and snake up buildings and along pathways, and the structures are bent and crooked, leaning into the topography and being pulled every which way by the fauna.

The Guardian’s house is located on an incline, with a paved path leading from it to the town proper. It is dwarfed by larger buildings that seem to curl around and over it, towering and protective, like a weeping willow’s branches. More notable to Drifter, however, is the warp pad which takes up a large portion of what he guesses is supposed to be the Guardian’s front yard.

He walks over to it almost immediately, inspecting it thoroughly and pinging his Companion to download its coordinates.

Sure, he’d seen a warp pad before, but rarely, and never this large.

“It is not connected to anywhere.” The Guardian explains, noting the Drifter’s curiosity. “You will have to connect it manually to any others you find.” That means that there _are_ others. Probably outside of Central, by the sound of it. Drifter figures that they could prove to be terribly convenient later regardless.

Drifter nods and walks back to the Guardian’s side, as he begins to lead Drifter further into town.

The path leads directly to the center of town, which is, ironically, the only part of town that is completely empty. Possibly due in no small part to the half-buried, diamond-shaped relief in the ground. It appears to be made of metal, with inlaid triangles on the points. The parts of it that aren’t covered by gravel and moss seem to be glowing from below, with the center of the diamond shining a vibrant but sickly looking purple.

The sight makes Drifter cringe -- it looks familiar to him, but causes him to feel profoundly unsettled at the same time. Much like most of the other things he’d found familiar lately. He taps the Guardian on the shoulder and points at the design with a frown on his face. The taller drifter gives him a sheepish smile in return. Drifter supposes that he may feel the same way about it, judging from the Guardian’s reaction. He drops his hand, but still scowls at it.

The Guardian takes a deep breath, opening his mouth like he’s about to say something, but ends up sighing with a light shrug instead. He gives the Drifter a wave and starts walking again. Drifter huffs, following his lead.

The Guardian is very thorough in his tour, pointing out shops and waving to villagers, but Drifter finds himself tuning out large chunks of his explanations to take in the sights. He marvels especially at the wads of wires coming off of communication poles, with cables and large batteries and all manner of adaptors and junk strapped precariously in place, extending to the various inhabited buildings and shop stalls. It looks very haphazard; he briefly wonders what would happen if one caught fire. There are also numerous light posts, in varying degrees of functionality, though some of the residents have strung up smaller lights and lanterns as well. It’s probably no less colorful at night than it is during the day.

The people seem just as thrown together as their town, with a myriad of different races walking around, going on about their daily business, and speaking in different languages. _Very_ different languages. Languages he doesn’t recognize, he notices. They speak quickly, and their words slur and blend together to Drifter’s untrained ear. Some of them speak briefly to the Guardian, and he responds with the same foreign slur-sounds as whoever he talks to.

They stop by a stall set up a little bit north of the central sigil, where a dark-skinned woman with pale hair is flipping some kind of meat patty on a sizzling grill. She strikes up a conversation with the Guardian as he digs into a small bag on his belt for money. The back and forth sounds so natural that it’s almost oppressive to Drifter, who looks away and tries to tune them out. The woman seems to be part cook and part butcher, judging by the huge chunks of meat hanging on hooks near the back of her stall. It makes Drifter a little queasy to try and figure out exactly _what_ the meat had been, leading him to promptly look in yet another direction.

There is a fountain across the way, with another vendor set up in front of it; an old man with red skin and bushy hair. His business seems to be buying and selling trinkets and oddities, for Drifter can’t find anything in common between the items he has laid out on a cloth.

A tap on his shoulder nearly makes him jump out of his skin. He spins on his heel, hands reflexively reaching for where his sword would have been, only to find the meat-selling woman looking at him with a stunned expression that probably matches his own.

“Вы собираетесь получить что-нибудь, коротышка?"

He blinks once, twice, and shakes his head dumbly, before shooting the Guardian a startled glance.

“She is asking if you would like something.” He explains. He hadn’t noticed it before, but his pronunciation is a little stiff. The Guardian is probably fluent in his language, Drifter figures, but now he can tell that it isn’t his first language. Or second, for that matter. How many languages does he speak?

Drifter turns to look at the woman, who is staring at him with what is probably impatience, and shakes his head. He isn’t sure his stomach can handle that much… _Solidness_ … to his food. Especially out of the safety and seclusion of the Guardian’s house. She glances at the Guardian, who shrugs and continues talking to her in that language. It reminds Drifter of those books; _almost_ a little recognizable, but he can’t make heads or tails of it.

The Guardian resumes the tour, newly acquired meat sandwich in hand, giving great care to point out the weapon shops, apothecary, and training centers. Things that would be useful for a _drifter_. He had probably noticed Drifter tuning out his explanations of the more mundane shops and buildings. Drifter hadn’t meant to be rude in that regard, and feels a little bad about it, but the Guardian doesn’t seem upset at all.

After a (very overwhelming) few hours, the two return to the Guardian’s house, for which Drifter is grateful. His legs are starting to twitch under him, and as soon as he sits down they stop feeling like legs and start feeling like jelly instead.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep after that.

 

\--

 

True to his word, the Guardian accompanies Drifter out of town the next day. They’d packed lightly, as the two are only planning to do some reconnaissance before returning, but the Guardian _had_ insisted on bringing a small backpack. Which is more than the Drifter; he brought only his two weapons and the cape on his back.

The east area -- The Lake, as the Guardian calls it -- will take several hours of trekking through the Dregs around Central to get to. Drifter is both glad for and regretful of this fact. His limbs itch to move after so long bedridden, but they are also incredibly sore and still recovering. The ticking in his head that always screams _move, move, move,_ seems to be placated well enough by the casual walk Drifter and the Guardian take up, and his muscles seem mostly okay with the pace as well.

The Dregs are war-torn, more so than Central. It looks as if it had been once inhabited, as it is filled with pieces of architecture not unlike the broken down and well worn houses of town. But some calamity had torn through in the past, ripping holes in the earth so deep Drifter can’t see the bottom. Large struts of cement litter the landscape, many with skeletons trapped underneath, as well as blocks of debris that had once made up a wall around the town. Now, nature worms its way around and through these relics, with gnarled roots bursting through what used to be windows, doors, and eye sockets.

Still, it is beautiful and wild, and he enjoys the sights.

The area is inhabited by small, mechanical spider-like creatures, but with the combined effort of Drifter and the Guardian, they are no problem to clear out. As they travel, the Guardian makes an effort to educate Drifter on their surroundings; a large gargoyle statue that nearly makes Drifter jump (“Do not worry, it has not moved in years… probably.” he teases, earning a scowl from his companion), some fruit trees, and large robotic armatures half-buried in foliage.

“I do not think we will have any problem exploring the Otter lands, though we may run into trouble with the Toads,” he explains, drifting over an exceptionally large crevice. He waits a few feet beyond the gap for Drifter to dash across before continuing. “The Toads live further north-east. They are very traditionally-minded, for the most part, and do not take well to intruders. The Toads and Otters have been at odds for years now. It has not broken out into violence in decades, but they argue about everything.” Drifter nods in acknowledgement.

He’d seen some Toads in town, though precious few. Otters, however, were more common. He recalls seeing an Otter tending to a patch of flowers outside of the Apothecary, and one serving as an instructor in the dojo. There were probably others he’d seen too. He hadn’t really noticed any animosity between the two races while in town, but Central seemed to be pretty liberal about who and what races live there. It’s possible that the ones in Central were the actual odd ones out in this case. The Guardian certainly makes it sound that way.

“I was there recently.” The Guardian continues. “That was… a few days before I came across you, I suppose?” He taps his chin thoughtfully. If the days had blended together for the Guardian anything like they had for Drifter, he can’t blame him for having to think about how much time had passed. Drifter _still_ isn’t sure how long he’d been stuck in the Guardian’s house. And, on second thought, he isn’t sure he wants to know.

“I am afraid I did not comb the area too intensely before leaving, though. The Otters turned me away for some reason, so I headed north. That is where I found you.”

The thick foliage starts to clear up as the two progress, and Drifter can hear the sound of running water in the distance. It isn’t the same wild crashing sound from the cliffside where he’d woken up. It’s calmer and slower, easier on the ears and less stressful to listen to.

The forest overtaking the Dregs is soon replaced by a well-worn white marble pathway. It leads directly to the lake, which is a pristine blue, and then keeps going straight over the water. Moss and lichen have grown over some of the edges of the stonework, wedging into reliefs that are carved into the slabs and bobbing lazily in the water where it hangs over. Reeds sway calmly further out in the water, and insects buzz and skitter off the lake’s surface. Pale button mushrooms cling to the shadier parts of the paths and bridges, hiding under archways and sculptures, while small white flowers bloom in the sunlight.

Overall, if he had to describe it in one word? Pleasant. The Lake is remarkably pleasant.

The path goes from being a bridge to being a collection of large, tiled stepping stones that are a little too far apart for Drifter to traverse without dashing. The Guardian, with his height advantage, doesn’t seem to have any trouble, hopping over the distance like it’s nothing.

For some reason, Drifter finds himself annoyed by this fact.

Continuing along, they end up in front of what may have been a gazebo at one time, though it no longer has any semblance of a roof. Another drifter is resting under what little shade it provides, taking deep breaths in between soft coughs. The Guardian and Drifter nod at the stranger in greeting as they pass, and they follow suit slowly, before suddenly shouting like they’d just remembered something. Like with most people he’d met so far, Drifter can’t understand a word, but they sound fairly distressed.

The Guardian walks over, a concerned look on his face, with Drifter trailing not far behind. The stranger rises to their feet, speaking animatedly to the Guardian, and pulls up something on a holographic projection coming from their Companion. The Guardian’s eyes narrow at whatever news this drifter is giving them, and beckons to both his and the Drifter’s Companions to copy the data.

Drifter gives a curious glance first to the stranger, and then to the Guardian. When his larger companion doesn’t seem to notice, brows furrowed in concentration, Drifter taps him on the shoulder to get his attention. The Guardian seems taken aback for a second, as if he’d forgotten about him, before offering an explanation.

“They are warning us about someone… some _thing_ called The Hermit, in the northern reaches of the Lake.” To make his point, he pulls up a new marker on their Companions’ maps -- a red skull.

The Guardian frowns, mumbling something under his breath, before turning on his heel and walking with purpose further east. Drifter curiously watches him go for a moment, turns to the stranger, and gives them a polite nod before heading off after him. He scoffs at the Guardian to show his disapproval at how suddenly he had taken off, but even if the Guardian noticed, he doesn’t slow down.

“I have a bad feeling…”

They both break into a dash, drifting over the stepping stones and across platforms with a sense of urgency that Drifter hadn’t seen in the Guardian before now.

He can smell it before he sees it. That sickly sweet smell that hangs in the air with a faint tang of copper. It is a smell -- and a taste -- he is intimately familiar with. The scent alone makes his throat tighten a little. And when they finally see the source of the blood, the two of them stop dead in their tracks.

Red plumes stain the water as it runs off of a platform that is absolutely drenched in blood. Oblivious to their approach, a red toad in a pointed straw hat drags the mangled, white-furred corpse of a recently slain Otter behind it, tossing it onto a pile of bodies. Behind it, there are bodies strung up on wooden poles. A warning.

_An example._

The toad notices them, letting out a loud, angry croak as it hops out from behind the pile, pulling out a large throwing star. Drifter regains his senses before the Guardian does, dashing across the gap between their stepping stone and the toad’s landing, pulling out his pistol and letting out a volley of rapid shots. The toad dodges out of the way of most, but a few find their mark. It yelps and throws the star, missing Drifter by a hair and already readying a second one. But he doesn’t give the toad the chance, as he springs forward, sword at the ready, and cleaves the creature in two.

The Guardian snaps out of his state of shock, joining the Drifter on the landing, quaking at the sight. “How did this happen?” he mutters in disbelief. Drifter lets out a puff of air from his nose, stowing his weapons and leaning down to examine the wreckage.

The blood is still warm. Whatever brought on the attack by the Toad, it had just happened, within the past few hours at the most. If the Toads live in the north-east of the area, then these are their most recent kills. They are probably spreading out towards Central, and it looks like they went through the Otters to get this far.

This doesn’t bode well for any Otters further in.

The Guardian clenches his fists, hissing under his breath and staring at the streams of blood on the ground.

“Я мог бы их спасти…”

Drifter isn’t sure what he said, but he can guess well enough. The Guardian had mentioned that he had been here quite recently. Before the attack happened, or as it began. He couldn’t have had any idea that this was going to happen. But still, the grief and regret that he has to be feeling about leaving the Lake…

Well, it’s too late now. But they could still save Central. Still find the modules.

He clicks his tongue at the Guardian, who looks up at him in surprise. He swings his arm, motioning for the Guardian to follow his lead, before heading further into the Lake’s blood-soaked ruins.

Neither of them have time to stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, about the languages in this fic. There will be a few of them over the course of the story, not just Russian, and the fic will actually make the most sense if you don't understand them, though I will continue to have translations for them with the hovering thing. 
> 
> The reason I went with Russian as the primary spoken language is because it LOOKS similar to English letters, but is fundamentally different. But like, when I see words in Russian, I try to sound them out with what they look like they'd be in English. Because they're similar-enough looking that it's what my brain jumps to doing. This is the feeling I wanted to present for Drifter, who feels like there's something familiar about the language(s) being spoken, but that he still can't make heads or tails of it. 
> 
> I really hope I managed to pull that off in this chapter.
> 
> As a side note, the three languages that will be present in this story are Russian, Spanish, and French. And while I do have a grasp on Spanish and French at worst, and way-more-fluent-than-me friends at best, I don't have as strong a reference or aide for the Russian. So if I got something wrong, please correct me! I'd like to keep the languages as accurate and correct as possible, even if actually understanding what was said isn't particularly important to the flow of the story.
> 
> And now, for mobile devices and tablets:
> 
> “Вы собираетесь получить что-нибудь, коротышка?” - "Are you gonna get anything, shortie?"
> 
> “Я мог бы их спасти…” - "I could have saved them..."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is longer than the first three chapters put together. I'm dead.

The Guardian lets Drifter lead, for the most part. Drifter keeps his pace slower than he usually would have, but they progress swiftly across the blood-soaked marble surface regardless. 

It doesn’t take long for them to come across more Toads. The place seems to be crawling with them, and each one is just as hostile as the last. Drifter springs forward, weaving in and out of the way and running circles around the amphibious warriors, while the Guardian aims at them from further back. His rifle cracks loudly after each shot (Drifter had visibly flinched at it the first time), and his aim is true. 

It takes surprisingly little time for the two to fall into a rhythm with each other, much to Drifter’s shock and awe. Drifters have something of an unspoken alliance with one another, but they rarely work in any way but alone. He can’t remember the last time he traveled with someone else, or if he  _ ever _ had. But the two of them work well together, with the Drifter rushing enemies and the Guardian providing solid support with gunfire or slashing at anything that gets past Drifter. 

 

\--

 

When Drifter had been informed that there were two groups of societies living out in the Lake, he had expected them to live, well,  _ above _ the surface. He and the Guardian barely traverse the area before Drifter learns just how wrong he is.

Yes, there are buildings and structures built onto the white marble surface. But they’re full of stairs and lifts that go down, down, down. Down into the deep, dark reaches of the Lake’s bottom. And it’s chilly.

(He doesn’t notice that he’d been shivering from the temperature change until the Guardian sidles up next to him. The Guardian’s side is warm, and Drifter pretends not to notice how the respectful distance they’d been keeping had shrunk. The Guardian is a kind person, he notes. Too kind.

A part of him reasons that it might get him killed; the rest of him hopes that he’s wrong.)

The lifts are worse than the stairs. At least you can see where you’re going on steps; where you’d end up. The lifts are just darkness. He’s had enough of that for a lifetime.

The halls echo. Loudly. 

The light tapping of their footsteps sounds like the thundering march of an army, and it doesn’t do much for his nerves. According to the Guardian, they’re still in Otter lands, but the Otter lands are still occupied by Toads. He wishes they could be a little more stealthy.

One corridor, blessedly free of Toads, leads to a short stairway. The room it’s attached to is strangely ethereal, and it takes Drifter a few moments to realize why. 

It’s the walls. 

They’d been metal until now, but these are glass. He can see water outside, surrounding them. Burying them. Light filters first through the lake, then the thick glass of the walls, dancing off of the reflective floor tiles and bounding around the room.

He walks over to the wall once he’s descended the last of the stairs. There’s a body floating only a few feet away, out in the water. An Otter. Drifter reaches a hand out and rests it on the glass, blocking his view of its face. 

As he hears the Guardian getting closer, he starts walking again, dragging his hand across the glass and continuing to watch the outside world. He can feel the cold through his gloves, and feel condensation moisten his fingertips through the fabric.

He stops suddenly, turning to face the glass entirely. There’s a shadow out there, somewhere. Flickering. His eyes won’t focus on it, and it keeps moving,  _ twitching _ , just out of sight, but it’s there. He knows it. It’s out there.

Or behind him.

He can feel the blackness encroaching on him like a slow moving fog, feel it curl itself around his ankles, feel it make him go cold.

His throat tightens and his breath catches. He coughs. At first it’s just the one, and he hopes that’s the end of it, but another forces its way out. Followed by another. And another.

He brings a hand to his mouth, turning to brace his back against a solid surface, and slides slowly to the ground, still coughing.

And then the phantom is there. The giant. The nightmare.

That large black figure, standing over him. It kneels and grabs his hands, but they’re  _ warm _ , why are they… warm?

He screws his eyes shut, wheezing, and then forces them back open. 

And then he’s back. His vision is swimming and he feels nauseous, but he’s here. He’s now. He’s drooling blood from his mouth, but he’s breathing.

He’s sitting with the cool glass of the wall behind his back. The Guardian is holding his hands with a very concerned look on his face. Drifter jumps a bit from the contact, snatching his hands back and cradling them in his chest. He brings his knees up and draws in on himself, eyeing the Guardian suspiciously. But the Guardian looks relieved instead of offended and he stands, backing off to give Drifter some space.

He holds out his hand. “Give me your mask, I will wash it.”

Drifter bristles at first at the suggestion, but the fabric around his face is wet and sticky, and it smells awful. He grumbles and whines in protest. The Guardian looks the other way, hand still outstretched.

“I will not look. Please give me your mask.”

Not that it matters; the Guardian already  _ saw. _

He sighs, drawing his cape up around his head before removing his mask. He holds it for a moment, whimpering at both the idea of having his face out in the open and at the bloody mess he’d made of it, before handing it to the Guardian.

“You should wash your face off.” The Guardian suggests lightly as he takes a couple steps over to the edge of the platform. He kneels down and dunks the mask in the water. When Drifter doesn’t move, he continues. “You can do it over there.” He gestures with one hand to the far side of the platform, where Drifter can wash his face without being seen.

Drifter complies with a huff, walking (and swaying, and righting himself) over to the edge and sitting (slipping). Blood is dripping down his chin, and his face looks pallid and sickly. He peels his gloves off and sets them aside, rolling up his sleeves before taking a large handful of water and splashing it on his face. Dully, he wonders if it’s actually helping at all, or if the water is just spreading the blood around so it can drip all over his clothes. He takes another few handfuls of water to his face. In the darkness, it’s hard to parse what are scars and what is dried blood in his reflection. Suddenly, he wonders when the last time he’d bathed was.

He grimaces at his own image staring back at him, before thrashing out at the water with one hand.

After several moments and several deep breaths, he wipes the water-blood mix off of his face and hands with his cape and stalks away from the edge, back to his spot against the glass wall. And then the gloves are back on, and he bundles himself up in his cape and brings his knees up to his chest.

Not long after, the Guardian sits beside him. He hands Drifter the now clean, albeit slightly damp, mask. Drifter snatches it from the Guardian’s hands as soon as it’s offered to him, and ties it back around his face, making sure it is securely in place before letting himself relax a bit.

“We should go back.” The Guardian tells him sternly but quietly, turning his face away from Drifter to avoid the strained glare that he shoots him. After a few beats of silence, the Guardian stands, nodding to himself. “You need to rest. We will go back.”

Drifter yanks the Guardian’s cape roughly. When the Guardian turns to him in surprise, he shakes his head. The Guardian sighs, taking Drifter’s hand and pulling him to his feet. “We will go back.” He repeats, turning the two of them back to the stairs. Drifter snatches his hand back, shaking his head quicker now. He turns on his heel and dashes defiantly over the water onto the next platform. 

It takes a few agonizing seconds for Guardian to join him. He opens his mouth to say something, then shuts it, still thinking. After a few more attempts and a couple of awkward glances, he finally speaks up.

“Thank you.”

Drifter huffs. He bumps the Guardian lightly with his shoulder before continuing down the corridor.

  
  


\--

  
  


The path goes on a bit further before splitting off. A ways past the split, to the side of the stairs they’d traversed, they find their first module.

Drifter had been expecting the worst, but the sight is still a terrible first impression for their task.

The module itself is untouched, buried deep in the floor, but it’s surrounded by corpses. They are mutilated far beyond recognition, with body parts strewn about and blood streaked across the floor. Broken weapons, tattered clothing, and a copious amount of innards accompany the bodies. 

None of them are Otters.

The Guardian respectfully frisks the bodies for any form of identification, murmuring something to himself, while Drifter busies himself investigating the module.

“I wonder what happened to them. The blood is dry and they seem like they have been here a while.” The Guardian muses, shoving one of the bodies aside with a quick apology to examine a piece of machinery it had been leaning against. “Perhaps they were killed before the Toad invasion, even.”

The module’s handle feels heavy and cold. Drifter hesitates a moment before turning the handle and unlocking the machine. He hefts it up, and it releases with a hiss and a puff of steam. It turns out to be relatively easy to lift once he gets started, and clicks into place as he pulls it up to nearly his own height. The machinery drones for a moment as light moves down the center and outward from the base, before quieting down to a soft hum. Around them, the ambient light given off by ceiling lights and machinery dims down to almost nothing.

He hears the Guardian let out a sharp breath behind him, and turns his head to face him. The Guardian looks slightly taken aback, glancing around at their dimming surroundings before looking back at Drifter with a slight frown. “Why did you do that?”

Drifter looks town at the module, handle still in his grasp. He lets go, and his eyes return to the Guardian, who still looks a bit upset. 

“Should we not have investigated further first? We did not know what would happen when the module was pulled.” He gestures around the room with his arms. “You should not have been so rash.”

Drifter gives him a very unimpressed stare, crossing his arms with a huff. As if they had the time to inspect every nook and cranny before acting. They could stare at corpses for hours, coming up with all manner of conclusions of who they were and how and when they died, but what good would that do?

Besides, the module? Pulling it felt right. He’s not sure he could put the feeling into words, exactly, but he knows it was what he was supposed to do.

“Drifter!” Guardian calls, and for the first time in ages Drifter regrets the fact that he can’t talk. He’d never had to explain himself when he’d been alone. It’s frustrating to want to now.

They don’t have time for this.

He shrugs, turns, and starts walking back to the path’s fork, intending to go the other way this time. He hears the Guardian resume following him shortly after.

He makes an effort to walk more slowly, to try and keep his steps light, as they traverse the other path. A few steps in, the Guardian seems to catch on. Drifter still feels like their steps are too loud and echo-y, but it helps.

The Guardian seems to have taken the hint to drop their conversation as well. The silence between them now feels a little strained, but neither of them make an effort to break it while they sneak around.

Drifter only just rounds a corner before noticing that they’re not alone. He stops abruptly, and backs up around the corner again, peeking around it to watch. He holds out his arm, and the Guardian stops as well, backing himself up against the wall and looking out from above Drifter’s head.

The corridor is flanked by some sort of canal. Across the water, there’s a separate pathway. He eyes it suspiciously as a pair of Toads shamble across it, their feet making hollow pattering sounds on the metallic surface. 

They’re carrying large glass jars, nearly as tall as Drifter, that are full of fire.

The Toads take the fire jars down the hall and through a door on the far end, oblivious to the fact that they’re being watched. They don’t come back, even after several minutes.

Drifter walks out of their hiding spot, examining the walkway from afar. It’s too far away for him to make the dash. He assumes it’s probably the same for the Guardian, as he doesn’t attempt to cross either.

But what had those Toads been doing? Where were they going, and with such dangerous cargo?

“I had heard,” The Guardian begins, crossing his arms, “that the Hermit, the leader of the Toads, suffers from a malady. Parasitic plants grow under and through his skin.” He pauses, taking a few steps further down the path before pointing out some more jars of fire sitting in the middle of the way. “Beneath the plants, he rots. He may be hoping to burn them off.”

It won’t help, Drifter is sure of that. He doesn’t even need to know what the Hermit is afflicted with to know that it won’t find a cure by burning itself. 

But then, he remembers when he used to pick at his scabs. When he used to scratch at the sores on his skin until he drew blood. He used to hope that they wouldn’t come back after he’d dug them out. That he could somehow pull his illness out of him.

He knows better now, but it’s still frustrating.

The Hermit probably knows, somewhere deep down, that it won’t help. 

Nothing will help.

 

\--   
  


  
It isn’t until their fourth module that they have trouble.

The ruins take the pair off to the west side of the Lake and back outside. He hadn’t noticed until now how nice the cool air feels. It’s chilly underground as well, but the air down there is heavy and dank.

The two of them stop at a large fountain the size of a building, where the Guardian takes the time to refill some canteens he had brought and wash off some of the grime and plant fluids that had accumulated in their bouts against the Toads and the flora.

(Drifter had learned underground that some plants are both carnivorous and explosive. Bomb plants, he decides to call them. He dislikes them immensely. But the large flytrap plants are worse. He’d nearly lost his arm in their first encounter with one, and it was thanks to the Guardian that he’d only  _ nearly _ lost it.

The Guardian doesn’t have names for the plants. He’s not sure where they come from, either, though he theorizes that they either came with the Toads as some kind of biological weapon, or that the Otters who would normally keep them in check no longer can.

Because they’re dead.

The Guardian doesn’t say that last part, though.)

Drifter barely notices all the dirt he’s covered in, not bothering to wash himself off as he skirts around the edge of the fountain, where he finds a crumbling pathway leading back south.

The path widens a little ways down before coming to an abrupt halt. The only thing aside from the water and low foliage is a pathway of stepping stones made of large, metal grates. There’s a strange, acrid smell coming from them, but they look sturdy enough. And what is a path if not something to traverse?

He gingerly dashes to the first one and hesitates. There’s a spark of something below him, a smell he can’t quite place, but it burns his nose even through his mask. It’s accompanied by a surge of heat. 

Drifter bounds back to solid ground just as a plume of fire shoots up from the grate with a thunderous roar. He lands not-so-delicately on his rear as he stares wide-eyed at the place he’d been standing only seconds before. Now, even the air seems to be incinerated.

Only a few seconds later, the fire dies down with a hiss, until the line of grates looks just as inconspicuous as it had before. He has to force himself to start breathing again. Picking himself up off the ground proves to be quite the task as well.

The Guardian runs toward him, and helps him get up. He’s fussing over him immediately, and Drifter scowls, breaking away from the Guardian and wrapping himself up in his cape. The Guardian seems to get the idea. He backs off, though his concern is still plain on his face.

“What happened? Some sort of trap?” He questions. After a few beats, he adds, “You should be careful.”

Drifter walks to the edge, bracing himself against the floor, and leaps to the first grate. As soon as his feet touch the metal with a sharp clang, he takes off again, dashing to the next one, and then the next after that.

He can feel the heat rush to the sky, feel his cape flutter from the force, and hear the torrent of flames roar behind him. Always behind him, only a few steps away, a few seconds delayed.

The Guardian is shouting something from the safety of the marble platform, but Drifter can’t hear him. The fire is too loud, the clanging of the metal too hard, the path too arduous. If it had been a straight shot, that would be one thing, but the grates are arranged so that he has to turn and dodge in all manner of directions to stay forward-bound, with only a moment to react before he would otherwise be burned to a crisp.

But it does end, eventually, and he finds himself scrambling for the safety of a white stone platform, heart racing and breath catching. His legs give out from under him as soon as he hears the last plume of fire die down behind him. He sits, just for a little bit, catching his breath and examining where exactly that death trap got him. 

His heart falls a little when he realizes that it took him on a very roundabout route to a sectioned off part of where he started, probably only a few feet to the side. Large white barriers separate where he and the Guardian had been, and where he is now. They’re smooth, and probably difficult to climb over, but some part of him still feels defeated by this revelation.

He sighs as deeply as he can (and coughs once because of it), before remembering that the Guardian is on the other side of the wall, and probably worried about him. After a few more seconds of rest, Drifter hefts himself up and walks over to a button on a stand, pounding it unenthusiastically.

As the barrier lowers, he notices another switch hidden behind the stand, and stomps on it, mildly intrigued. There’s a slight rumbling, and a platform rises up from the water in what he had assumed was just a normal strait between the fountain area and the building they’d emerged from.

The Guardian beats him to it, kneeling down at the water’s edge to investigate the contraption. Drifter falls in next to him, but doesn’t get down on his knees.

“It is mechanized, somehow. I do not think it will go back down any time soon.” He stands back up, brushing some dirt off his knees. “I wonder what the point of it was.”

Drifter shrugs, dashing across the gap to the platform. From there, he can see another, one that he hadn’t noticed before. He crosses over to that one as well, and the Guardian follows.

The landing is small, rimmed on all sides by trees and plantlife, but that’s not what draws his eyes. On the far end sits a large stone monolith, towering over the trees (which are, admittedly, on the short side, as their branches bend and spread outward, rather than shoot upwards), and in the center rests a module.

The Guardian investigates the monolith first, brushing his hand over the worn rock. The symbols carved into it glow slightly as he touches them, but seemingly not enough for him to parse what they say.

“I have seen one of these before,” he says softly. Drifter approaches it as well, standing beside the Guardian as he calls his Companion over. It beeps, working to decrypt whatever the slab has to offer, but proves unnecessary. There’s a flash, and the tablet flickers as if it was a monitor of some sort instead. Slightly to the side, Drifter notices a barely-visible hologram of someone, but it flickers too much for him to get a good look at the figure before it disappears entirely. 

He’s not sure if the Guardian saw it or not.

The Guardian seems to be intently focusing on the monolith again, as the symbols on it have both rearranged themselves and become much more clear. He sounds out the letters to himself in another language, absorbed in translating it. It takes him a few moments before he settles on a meaning.

“Fragile balance scorched, end one,” He announces thoughtfully, with a hand on his chin. He looks to Drifter for validation. Drifter meets his gaze, eyes brightening, before turning to the monolith himself, taking a closer look at the inscription.

Well, the Guardian was almost right.

Drifter walks right up to the stone, drawing a finger from the letter on the bottom of the column second-most to the right, up to the top of the farthest right one, and down the far side of it. He taps his finger at the end of it, and turns back to the Guardian, who looks puzzled by but interested in his message. To reiterate his point, Drifter swipes short, sharp lines between some of the other symbols, clarifying them as separate words, before repeating the motion. After several moments, the Guardian seems to get the basic idea.

“You think those are all one word?” He asks. Drifter nods in response, stepping back so that the Guardian can take his place in front of the monolith. He gives the symbols a second look-over, before stepping back and turning his head to face Drifter.

“Fragile balance scorched, undone.” The Guardian seems to play around with the words in his head, and nods. He crosses his arms, looking it over again. “Curious.” He muses, and for several moments he doesn’t say anything else. Then, he pings his Companion over. 

“The other one I saw said, ‘A loss of self, a narrow path travelled.’ ” He reads it off of a screen projected by his Companion. He then gestures for his bot to copy the contents of this one as well. It promptly does so. Drifter notices that his own Companion does as well, in addition to copying the one the Guardian already had.

“I wonder what they mean. Of course, there are probably more than just these two. I imagine that it is impossible to decipher their true meaning unless you find them all. But who would have gone through the trouble of doing this, and for what purpose?”

Drifter can feel his eyes glaze over as the Guardian launches himself into an elaborate theory about the monoliths. Who might have built them, as well as when and why; nothing escapes his speech. And while Drifter appreciates, he supposes, that the Guardian is putting in the effort to explain all the science and history behind his theory, and though he might have enjoyed listening on another occasion, he finds himself quickly tuning him out to focus on other things.

Fascinating as the Guardian’s story is, and it  _ is _ actually quite interesting, they have more important things to do.

Such as deal with that module nestled in the ground only a few feet away.

And so, he takes a few steps away from the Guardian, who is still animatedly preaching about the cultural significance of whatever he’s talking about, and promptly and unceremoniously pulls the module out.

It hisses as steam puffs out from the base and makes a scraping noise as it ascends, but slides out just as easily as the previous ones had.

This seems to cut off the Guardian’s speech well enough. He stops mid-sentence, turning to Drifter and the module with a start. It would have been comical, if it didn’t mean that the Guardian was now starting a longer speech about being more careful in the future and not acting so rashly.

“This is an ancient and delicate technology, Drifter! You can not go messing with things before taking the time to understand what you are doing!”

Drifter gives him an indignant look, but it only seems to make the Guardian fuss over his safety more. With a huff, he turns to make his way back to the fountain.

He only manages a single step before slipping. He manages to stay standing only by grabbing onto the module, and even that is difficult. His breath degenerates into a raspy wheeze, broken by fierce coughs that rattle him all the way down to his bones. 

He can feel his knees trembling beneath him even before the floor becomes tar. Everything around him seems to shake, crumbling into pieces that quickly get swallowed up by the black pitch all around him.

He throws himself off of the scorched stand he’d been using as support, as it starts to pulsate and flicker beneath him, but his legs can no longer support his weight, and he stumbles as long as he can before falling to his knees.

He gasps for air, but his nose and throat are clogged with blood. The smell makes him want to vomit, but he can’t even manage that, and he gags instead, choking. Everything is becoming hazy in his vision, except the spot right in front of him.

The tar rises from the ground, until it forms the figure of the black phantom, it’s eye-glyph shining as it shambles nearer. 

He tries to pick himself up off the ground, but everything is slick around him and he can’t get a good foothold. He falls further instead, using every last bit of his strength to prop himself up on his elbows.

The thing is right in front of him, and seems to regard him much like one would an insect -- small, worthless, and easy to kill.

Its shoulders hunch as if it were laughing at him, but he can’t hear anything except the ringing in his ears and the screaming that he knows would be his if he still had a voice. He’s not sure where it’s coming from, or if it even exists, everything is loud,  _ too loud _ . Too dark, but too bright, because there are white spots in his vision now, and he’s not quite sure how he’s managing to see through them, or even if he is, because everything is burning. His throat, his eyes, his lungs, they’re all on  _ fire. _

The shadow flicks its clawed hands up in the air with an almost audible snap. As it does, more tar congeals, rising from the pool in tendrils. Another flick, and the appendages shoot out at him, suddenly solid and very, very sharp. 

They catch him in his limbs, his chest, his throat, impaling him, and it  _ hurts  _ but it doesn’t hurt at all because it’s not them that hurts, it’s him. It’s always him. 

He imagines that he can see himself, as if he’s looking through the eyes of a stranger. There he is, skewered and bleeding, and he can only think that maybe now his throat will be unclogged enough for him to vomit, before everything goes dark and limp.

And then he bleeds to death.

 

\--

 

He sees blue.

He likes blue. It’s a nice color. It might be his favorite.

This blue is warm and swirling, like it’s trying to engulf him, but it feels comforting instead of oppressive and he’s not sure why but he feels like curling up in a ball and surrounding himself with it. Maybe, if he stays here, surrounded by blue, he won’t have to move again.

But his arms and legs don’t move, and the blue stays around him but not enveloping him. Just kind of coexisting with him, which he thinks is maybe a shame. But floating in it isn’t so bad, he supposes.

It’s getting a little cold now, though.

 

\--

 

Everything is bobbing and swaying. Like waves rocking back and forth, making him feel ill. 

He’s not sure if his eyes are open or not, but he can see a massive swirl of colors undulating before him, so he thinks they might be open. If they are, he wishes they weren’t. It’s like staring into a cosmos. Or a bubble. Or an oil spill.

It swirls and bubbles and meshes together before seeping into his eyes, into his skin. He can’t seem to do anything about it, though, so he lets himself soak it up. 

It buzzes, and suddenly it’s a sound, not a vision. Chirping and whistling and sloshing, and he can’t pick out one sound from the next. It’s all mangled and garbled together. It’s loud, roaring over his head, but also a quiet rumbling beneath him; a pitter patter and a deluge. A drizzle and a storm.

He feels weightless, somehow. And he’s floating, maybe, in spite of his leaden limbs that refuse to move. But something is dragging him, through the sound and the lights and the hot and the cold, and he’s not sure what’s going on but he doesn’t feel too worried.

He feels tired. So  _ very _ tired. 

He can feel the oil spill melding with his skin, and all the sounds and colors start to mesh with his thoughts and memories. Everything is a blur, and everything is dark.

He sleeps, maybe.

  
  


\--

  
  


He’s awakened by a soft murmuring nearby. The voices are quiet, and he can’t pick out any words. Just tones and sounds. He’s sure that it’s talking, but that’s all. He’s not sure where or who it is, or even if it’s real. There’s a slight, bubbling, gurgling sound nearby as well, which sounds familiar but he can’t quite place the source.

His eyes open slowly and with much difficulty. His eyelids have trouble staying open, but he can’t make out anything but a blur of light and color anyway.

White becomes yellow, which becomes blue and then green. He thinks his vision might be clearing up, but everything is still just blocks of color. He closes his eyes again, and the talking seems to fade in and out until it vanishes, and everything is quiet again.

After several moments, he tries to open his eyes again. They fight him the entire way, and his vision is still swimming even when they’re open, but it’s a start. Keeping them open proves to be a challenge, but he attempts it. 

There’s light, up high. Somewhere. He can see the bloom, washing out most everything around him with a brilliant and blinding white-yellow, before his eyelids flutter shut again.

The talking starts up again. He’s not sure where, but he knows it’s a ways off. Closer than the gargling, but further than the beeping. Which is further away than his breathing, which he can hear with deafening clarity. His chest rises and falls slowly, in time with the sound of heavy inhaling and exhaling, and he’s not sure why that surprises him but it does.

His eyes finally open, and stay open. And though his eyes are blurry, he can make out a ceiling, he thinks. It might be a ceiling. It’s certainly above him, and it doesn’t look like the sky.

Something flutters nearby, and he turns his head to the side, with some difficulty, to face the direction of the noise.

A large, black bird seems to have settled nearby. He blinks slowly, as his eyelids seem loathe to stay open for long, and hears more birds land around him. They warble to each other softly, and he can’t help but smile a little.

He reaches out to pat the one beside him--

And it flickers.

He cringes and pulls his hand away as quick as he can, cradling it.

The creature turns to face him, and instead of a face, it has a large purple glyph like an eye.

He feels his breath catch and finds himself immediately sobered, glancing around at the other birds as well. They all have the same glowing symbols for a face, and they’re all staring at him. He sits up with a start, pulling his arms and knees up to his chest, frantically glancing between the birds. They spread their shimmering wings and take off, flapping their wings only once before blinking out of existence. 

They weren’t real.

_ They weren’t real. _

Bring on the shortness of breath, the bleeding, the coughing, the gagging. The sores, the scars, the collapsing, the weakness. The itch. Let his lungs burn, his chest ache, his limbs throb. Give him  _ all of that _ and more. All of that is fine. He can deal with that. Those are  _ real _ . Even his nightmares; they were only a problem when he was asleep. But these visions?

His chest hurts, and he can feel pin pricks in his eyes. His face feels hot but his limbs feel cold.

He can’t tell if he’s breathing too quickly or not at all.

Drifter tries to fold himself up into as tight a ball as he can, but his body isn’t cooperating. Everything is hot and loud and there’s just  _ too much _ of everything. He feels overwhelmed but distant, and he’s not sure what’s real anymore. 

Where is he? How did he get here?

It seems unfamiliar and oppressive, and he would get up and run if he could summon any strength in his legs, but he can’t, so he’s just sitting, wishing he could scream, but he can’t do that either. So he sobs instead, maybe.

There’s a thumping, and then something grabs his hands and he stiffens. He panics, and now he’s sure he’s breathing because he’s definitely hyperventilating, and the touch is gone just as quickly as it appears. There’s noise all around him, and it takes all of his effort to comprehend that it’s  _ talking _ , but his breath is still hitching.

“Drifter, it is me! It is okay; you are okay.” 

He thinks it would be comforting, in different circumstances. He blinks tears out of his eyes, and the blur in front of him becomes the Guardian, whose hands are hovering a few inches away, dancing around like he’s not sure what to do with them. And he’s frowning a little, but he’s talking, thank the  _ gods, _ and he’s still talking. Slowly and softly about absolutely nothing. 

“It is okay to be afraid; I was afraid. But we are safe now.”

With a shaking hand, Drifter grabs a corner of the Guardian’s cape, tugging at it and entwining his fingers around the fabric because  _ it’s real _ . It’s soft and warm and  _ real _ .

He was afraid. Of what?

Slowly, Drifter can feel his pulse slowing. The Guardian appears to be chattering still, but he’s not listening. It’s nice just to hear it continuing in the background. He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand -- the other hand -- and stares pointedly at the ground between the two of them as he waits for his breath to even out. 

The Guardian seems to trail off after a bit. It’s quiet, finally. Save for the slight gurgle of water nearby and some light shuffling a ways off, everything is silent. They stay immobile for several moments; the Guardian seems to hesitate even on breathing, for fear of breaking the hard-earned peace and tranquility that has settled between them. Drifter lets go of his cape, and they stay still for even a bit longer after that.

“Are you all right?” The Guardian asks, eventually. Drifter rubs his face with the heels of his hands and nods, taking a few shuddering breaths to make sure. “Was it a nightmare?” He questions after a few more beats of silence. Drifter isn’t sure he would call it that; he’s not sure how awake or asleep he had been after… after that last module? The Guardian seems to take his silence as an affirmation.

“I dream about it too, sometimes. The Judgement.”

Drifter looks up at him with wide eyes. Even without any more details, any explanations or stories, he knows  _ exactly _ what the Guardian is talking about. What else could Judgement be but the hulking shadow from his visions, the one that seems so hell-bent on destroying him? He feels some bitter validation now that he has a word to associate it with.

“I see it in my nightmares. It towers over me with a face like an eye.” Drifter finds himself nodding along with the description. The Guardian seems to be relieved that he has Drifter’s attention and continues. “I try to fight it, but I never win. I can not cut through the carapace or appendages. It coils around me, and…”

It’s different.

Drifter visibly deflates and loses interest. He turns away.

The Guardian’s Judgement is different than his. Similar; similar enough that he’s sure the Guardian is talking about some incarnation of the same creature. But it’s still not the same.

“Drifter?” The Guardian questions. He shakes his head in response, staring down at the ground.

Floor.

Scowling slightly, he takes a moment to look around, fully taking in his surroundings for the first time, now that he can think straight.

He doesn’t recognize the building they’re in, but it’s made of the same building materials the rest of the Lake had been. White marble floors and walls, with matching pillars holding up the remains of the structure. The roof seems to be caving in around the edges. The room is enclosed by a moat on either side of the room. The gurgling sound he’d heard earlier is coming from a fountain on the far end, the centerpiece of which is a torch of the same pink fire he remembers the Toads handling. Behind it, and inlaid into the rest of the wall as well, are several grand, stained glass windows depicting Otter warriors.

“We are in a house of worship, near the center of the Lake. Some survivors are using this place as a sanctuary, as the Toads have not entered it.”

Sure enough, he can see some Otters scattered around the room. One of them leans against the fountain, pounding away at a shackle around their leg with a chunk of rubble. Another is laying on the ground in a heap, covered by a tattered blanket. They look up wearily for a few moments before their head falls again. A third sits on a bench near the fountain but far from the others, paws clasped together and head bent down in prayer.

He doesn’t remember seeing this building before.

Which means it’s the second time the Guardian has carried his incapacitated self to a safe location. And over quite a distance, too, if his guess about their general location is correct. Traveling is dangerous, and with extra baggage?

Guardian is truly a kind person.

“Drifter.” He turns his focus back at the sound of his name, and finds the Guardian looking strangely humble. 

“I am truly sorry. I was insensitive before.” 

About what? Drifter gives him a puzzled look, but he doesn’t explain. Instead, he suggests their next course of action. “I will not ask you to turn back and return to Central, but please. We should rest here until daybreak.”

Daybreak. The sun had been high overhead when he’d last checked.

He contemplates the offer, at first a little wary of spending any amount of time still. But, he finds that his chest aches and his limbs are throbbing, and thinks maybe he can do that. For a few hours, maybe.

He exhales deeply, and nods. Then, he stands. It takes more effort than usual, and he winces at the strain, but his mind is set. He grabs some pews -- one at a time -- and hauls them to a corner of the room, barricading himself from the water around the rim and building himself something of a fort. He gets a few strange looks from the Guardian, but no one seems to object.

He huddles himself against the painted wooden surface, bracing his back against them, and curls up.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep.

  
  


\--

  
  


Drifter is awake as soon as the first hints of daylight start to peek through the holes in the ceiling. With some gentle prodding from his foot, the Guardian is up soon after, and the two leave without a sound. The Guardian takes special care not to wake the dozing Otters on the pews and floor nearby.

They make their way through the rest of the Lake, trudging through waist-deep water and mud, over rotting wood and stone, with bugs buzzing around their heads. The plants give them some trouble, but the Toads are curiously absent for long stretches of territory, and it takes a while for the two of them to learn why.

The Toads had known they were coming and prepared for it. Barricades made of rubble, wooden pikes, and corpses stand in front of a makeshift campsite, protecting one final building. And while the Toads’ insight about the situation and their decision to defend themselves is admirable, it’s hopeless for them. And they probably know it.

The Guardian is the first to act this time, as he snipes one of the Toads from afar. The rest are thrown into disarray, unsure of where the shot came from. They scramble and panic, which only makes them easier to pick off.

Drifter weaves in and out of the camp, ducking behind canvas tents before emerging in ambush, while the Guardian continues to provide cover fire. 

It takes Drifter a few moments to realize that Guardian is herding them around with his shots. It’s strange and subtle, he thinks. He didn’t act like that before; his tactics had been more defensive than anything. Drifter isn’t sure what brought about this change, but he’s impressed. For all he had been pleasantly surprised with their teamwork earlier, it’s nothing compared to now.

Many of the remaining Toads fall before they manage to regroup. They desperately back themselves up against the door, weapons bared, and Drifter almost feels bad for them. 

Almost.

He doesn’t have the time to worry about it, though. And it isn’t long before the Toads are dead and it no longer matters.

Now, there’s just the Hermit.

He hesitates in front of the door, while the Guardian inspects the campsite for anything useful. He’s not sure what to expect from the creature; haggard and rotting, probably, with a thirst for blood and violence to go with it. A real monster.

He flicks the blood off of his sword absentmindedly, trying to clear his head. These kinds of thoughts won’t help; they won’t change anything. 

He’s not scared. He’s just… uneasy.

The Guardian walks back towards him, his face even. He hands Drifter a medkit he’d presumably found around the camp, and pockets one for himself, tucking it somewhere in the depths of his cape and armor. Wait.

Hadn’t the Guardian had a backpack before?

Drifter gestures to his own back and points at Guardian, frowning slightly. He takes a moment to decipher Drifter’s meaning, then shrugs. “There was nothing important in it.” He replies nonchalantly, before bringing attention back to the med pack still in Drifter’s hands. “I only managed to find the two. I have a feeling they will be useful.”

Drifter stares at him a moment longer, trying to comprehend his selfless actions. Guardian seems oblivious to it, though, as he reloads his rifle and checks himself for anything misplaced that might get in the way.

They both know that this encounter can only end in violence.

Drifter sighs, deciding he will confront the Guardian about it again later, if he can, and stows his own medkit in a small holster next to his pistol. He glances at Guardian to make sure he’s ready for whatever is through that door. He gets a nod in return, so he reaches for the door with one hand, the other on the hilt of his sword.

The door rumbles open at his touch, splitting across the center as half of it rises into the ceiling and half of it sinks down into the floor. He finds himself stepping in over the descending stone before it has receded completely. The Guardian follows closely behind him, gun at the ready.

The stench of rotting flesh and stagnant water hits him in waves, and he’s immediately glad for his mask. He hears the Guardian cough behind him, and doesn’t have to look to know that he’s covered his nose with his hand. He’ll get used to it soon, or have other things to worry about.

They trudge through a short hall. It opens up into a room with a single platform in the middle, surrounded on all sides by water. The marble is broken and cracked, worn away from time and impact. Fire jars are scattered around the area. Some are on the ground, and some are piled and stacked in the water, somehow unbroken in spite of how recklessly thrown about they look. And there it is, in the center.

The Hermit.

It looms over the two of them from the far side of the room, not quite as tall as Judgement but still towering several times Drifter’s height. It bleeds from its one good eye, the other -- and half of its body --  overtaken by plants. It wears what may have once been a vest around its arms, as well as furs around its neck. White furs. The skinned corpses of some of its victims.

There’s an Otter in one of its mangled hands, bleeding and either unconscious or dead. Their fur is matted down with blood, and one of their limbs is going the wrong direction. 

The Hermit notices Drifter and the Guardian, and it bellows, smashing the Otter into the ground before taking a bite out of it. It warbles as it consumes the rest of the body, blood dribbling from its mouth.

Drifter cringes. Something must have taken root inside its brain. Whatever reason this thing once had is completely gone. Now, it’s nothing but a monster. And it needs to be put down.

A shot goes off from behind him, hitting the Hermit in the arm. Drifter quickly turns, and sees Guardian shaking with rage. He swallows hard, before turning back to the Hermit, which howls in irritation. It slams its fists on the ground, and he can feel the floor quake beneath him.

No time for this. No time to just stare at it, doing nothing.

He glares and pulls out his sword, and rushes at the beast.

It doesn’t wait for him to get close, though, as it grabs one of the fire jars and hurls it in Drifter’s direction. He stops mid-sprint and dashes backwards, narrowly missing the glass and flame as they explode in front of him. He doesn’t stop drifting even after he’s clear of the debris, bounding to the side of their arena to get at the Hermit from a different angle. 

It reaches for another container and fumbles with it for a moment.The Guardian is still peppering it with bullets from afar when it throws the second jar. It explodes too close and too hot for comfort, but Drifter dodges out of the way and swipes at its free arm with his blade. 

It screams and slams its gnarled fist into the ground next to Drifter, nearly knocking him off of his feet. 

He dashes backwards again as it roars, but this time it doesn’t grab any jars. It heaves instead, and an acrid green liquid comes from its mouth. It sounds like it’s in pain, coughing up a couple of deformed looking pods of some sort.

He doesn’t have the time to figure out what just happened because the Hermit growls, stoops low on all fours and leaps into the air, aiming to crush both him and the Guardian.

The Hermit is large and rotten, but it still has significant power in its legs. In little more than a second, it’s halfway across the room, and the two of them have to scramble in opposite directions to keep clear. It lands with a deafening crash, and the force of it kicks a storm’s worth of dust and stone into the air. Drifter and Guardian escape the radius of the first jump, but the Hermit is already winding up for its next before they’ve stopped moving.

Drifter dashes as soon as he figures out what direction the creature is jumping in, wasting no time in making sure he’s going the opposite way. 

Another torrent of debris flies up as the world around him shakes again. He wills his body not to cough, wills his throat to stay clear for this battle, because if he falls, he’s not sure he’ll be getting up again. He seems to be resisting the urge for now, at least.

The Hermit howls in anger as it gets ready to leap again, and Drifter watches it intently, looking for any sign or muscle movement that will give him an indication of its next move.

He doesn’t hear Guardian call his name until it’s too late.

He can feel the thing’s slimy tentacle on his leg a millisecond before it explodes. And then everything is searing heat and deafening  _ pain. _

For a moment, he’s not sure where he is. He hisses through clenched teeth, eyes screwed shut as he writhes on the ground, trying to  _ think, dammit. _ But his side is burning; he can smell it almost worse than he can feel it. And everything is loud,  _ so loud _ , but it’s all just rumbling and crashing and he can’t make heads or tails of it.

He wills himself to think through the pain, to  _ focus _ , and it’s hard but  _ dammit _ , he doesn’t have  _ time _ .

He steadies his breath, forcing his eyes open to inspect the damage.

His leg is charred on the side, and part of his midsection as well. He’s not bleeding, his wounds are probably cauterized shut from the heat, but it… looks bad.

And he’s covered in plant gunk. That  _ thing _ had coughed up some damn  _ bomb plants _ before, and he’d been too distracted to notice.

Drifter rolls onto his stomach, wincing, and tries to force himself to his feet. But another crash nearby knocks him into the air, and he falls back to the ground inelegantly. 

The Hermit is still bouncing around, and every impact is keeping him from doing much more than pull himself onto his elbows and knees before he’s knocked down again.

And it’s headed in his direction now that he can’t move.

He can feel his heart rate climb as it gets closer.

Then, several loud cracks catch his attention, as well as the Hermit’s. 

Guardian is shooting at it from the other side of the room. He’s going berserk on the Hermit, yelling something Drifter can’t make out. Probably some sort of war cry.

It shrieks, trying to block the bullets with its arms as it turns to face Guardian, heading towards the more annoying prey while leaving the helpless one behind.

It’s him; Drifter’s the helpless one.

He glares and gets to his feet (with what might pass as a wail of pain in his own, strangled-sounding way). He grabs the medkit from his back holster, tears the autoinjector out of the box, and jams it into his leg. He’d scream, if he could, both in pain and frustration, but instead maybe whimpers, as the medicine works to close his wounds and numb the pain.

_ It’s not fast enough. _

The Hermit is close to Guardian now, arms in the air as it makes ready to crush him, and though Guardian dodges the first fist, the monster is blindly smashing its fists into the ground, trying to squash him like a bug.

Drifter pulls out his pistol and starts rapidly firing into the thing’s back.

It’s screaming, almost deafeningly, but he doesn’t stop shooting. Not until he sees Guardian emerge from the cloud of debris the Hermit made.

Sufficiently distracted, the Hermit turns its attention back to Drifter, grabbing a few more scattered fire jars and throwing them haphazardly in his direction.

The explosions are worse now, as cinders ignite the dust in the air, and everything is burning.

He doesn’t stop moving. If he does, he’ll get hit. He  _ knows it. _ Everything is glass and fire, always behind him, only a step away, a second delayed, but he hardly has time to process anything not directly in front of him.

And then it regurgitates more plants, three this time. The Hermit starts leaping around the room again, as the pods slither around on slimy tentacle-vines. 

It’s hard enough just keeping track of the Hermit, he thinks bitterly, dashing for one of the plants. He switches out his pistol for his sword and slashes at the little creature, sending it flying towards the Hermit.

It explodes, and the Hermit howls in pain and anger, shuddering from the impact. 

Drifter hears Guardian shoot the other two, and sees him punt one at the monstrous Toad while the Hermit is still dazed from the first. He dashes away from the other one, not having the time to try that trick with a third plant.

The Hermit shrieks again, stumbling backwards sluggishly. 

_ This is it. _

Drifter charges at it, leaping into the air with his sword at the ready. He lands on its chest, impaling his sword in the thing’s skin. It screams, convulsing, as he (slips a little trying to keep himself from falling) drags the sword further down its gut. Its cries become deafening, until he can hear nothing else but its wails ringing in his ears, and it falls onto its back.

It dies, deflating a little underneath him, but he can still hear its final scream, even after he’s fairly sure it’s no longer making any noise.

It’s over.

Drifter wheezes, out of breath, as he slowly loosens his grip on his sword. He’s almost surprised that, once he lets go, the Hermit doesn’t spring back to life and devour him like it had that Otter. 

Guardian trudges towards him and the Hermit, panting. He’s absolutely covered in plant gunk and blood, and Drifter hopes it’s all from the Hermit and not actually him. Staring down at his hands as he tries to steady his own breathing, he notices that he’s also drenched in the stuff.

“Are you all right?” Guardian asks between gasps. 

He smells, he’s sore, and his side is somewhere between tingling and throbbing but he’s not entirely sure which it is. But he’s breathing, somehow, still. As best he can, anyway. So he nods, slowly. Guardian looks relieved, exhaling slowly and taking a seat on a piece of rubble. 

With shaking hands, Drifter grabs his sword again, pulling it from the Hermit’s stomach. The corpse gives a little under the shifted weight, though, and he feels himself wobble. He struggles to regain his footing, and steps right in the Hermit’s open wound with a gross squelch for his efforts. It’s wet, and he shudders.

With a groan, he pulls himself out and off of the beast’s body, practically rolling off of it and onto the ground. He doesn’t like how his leggings stick to his thigh or how his foot squishes in his boot, but at this point he can hardly bring himself to care. 

He’s too tired.

Neither he nor Guardian move for several minutes, sitting on the ground and catching their breath as best they can. Guardian stays seated on his rock, and Drifter flops onto his back on the ground, arms and legs spread out.

For a single, bitter second, he thinks he could make a rather fetching gunk angel, like the snow angels he made as a kid. He almost laughs at the idea, but he’s too tired to even do that, let alone move.

After what feels like too long, his limbs start to itch, and he pulls himself up off the ground. After a brief glance around the room, he notices that the path they took to get here had been crushed and blocked during the fight. He also notices that there’s another room past this one. He takes a few steps experimentally, just to make sure he’s capable of it, before wandering off in that direction.

“Drifter!” He turns back, stopping mid (squish) step to look back at Guardian, who is picking something up off the ground. He jogs over to Drifter’s side and holds it out for him. 

His helmet. He hadn’t even noticed.

“It must have been knocked off in one of the explosions.” Drifter looks from the helmet up to Guardian’s face, before taking it from him and placing it back on his head. He hesitates, hands still on the armor, wishing again that he could express himself in some way to Guardian. He frowns, and turns, heading into the next room. 

He doesn’t need to look back or listen for footsteps to know that Guardian is following him.

The room is covered in moss, disturbed by neither Toad nor Otter, with trees growing out of the water in front of the walls. Flowers have taken root as well, and Drifter almost feels bad for tracking blood and dirt through the plants. There’s some sort of platform in the center that almost reminds him of a module, but much, much larger. In spite of its tranquil appearance, the entire room seems to rumble with power and anticipation. 

Drifter walks up to the stone platform, and touches it gingerly as Guardian comes up behind him. He gives Guardian a glance, but he has no objections this time, motioning for Drifter to go ahead. 

He pings his Companion to scan it, and steps back as the floor rumbles and an obelisk rises from the ground. 

The room glows and flickers as if there’s lightning dancing around the ceiling, and the obelisk ascends to its full height. It glows and pulsates, radiating energy and producing a pulsating hum, but nothing else happens.

They wait a little longer, but still, nothing happens. Drifter sighs, taking a few more steps back to stand next to Guardian. He wasn’t entirely sure what, if anything, might happen when he raised the obelisk like that, but he supposes whatever it was either already happened or won’t. Still, he feels a little disappointed.

He and Guardian continue through the room, which winds around before letting out on a path a little ways off from the campsite they came in through. The way continues for a bit before dropping off, quite literally, near the church.

Guardian slows down as they pass near the building. When he stops completely, Drifter turns back with a questioning look.

“We should tell the Otters.” He pauses for a moment before continuing. “The Hermit is dead; they should not have to stay here any longer.” Drifter lingers, not particularly thrilled about the idea of taking a detour right now (or really interacting with anyone or anything that isn’t Guardian), but he nods anyway, and the two head inside.

Drifter lingers near the doorway, leaning against a wall and looking out at the Lake while Guardian talks to what’s left of the Otters. There’s a warp pad nearby that he hadn’t noticed before, but he doubts the Otters have Companions, so they won’t be able to use it. They’re going to have quite the walk to get back to Central.

He meanders over to the warp pad and has his Companion download the coordinates regardless. It could prove useful later.

The Otters and Guardian emerge a few minutes later. The refugees seem rattled at best and deeply terrified at worst, but they seem to have agreed to follow them back to town. Probably for the best, for now.

Drifter turns and heads off first, leading the group from far enough away that he wouldn’t be able to hear what they were saying even if he  _ could  _ understand. Guardian hangs back with the Otters, speaking in soft and encouraging tones.

He really is a kind person.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DID YOU SEE THE THINGS I DID THAT I'M PROUD OF? I'm not gonna tell you what they are but I'm proud of them!
> 
> As for the East Boss' name: I've seen him called "The Emperor" in the fandom, but his battle theme is called "The Hermit" in the OST, so I went with that.
> 
> Also, I moved one of the tablets, for the tablet/module scene. There IS one on that screen, but it's a ways off, and I liked how it flowed better this way.


End file.
